


Maybe the Thought Counts

by Shey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Anal Sex, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Good Peter Hale, Hand Feeding, Holidays, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Smut, Steter Secret Santa, Steter Secret Santa 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/pseuds/Shey
Summary: Peter finds holidays distasteful, and his opinion on gift-giving isn’t fit for polite company—or so his sister used to say. He thought his position on the matter was perfectly clear, but based on what he just walked into, someone didn’t get the message.That someone is Stiles, who has a half-cocked but heavily researched plan to change Peter’s mind. And maybe along the way, they’ll both remember that gifts aren’t actually the important part.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 111
Kudos: 970
Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goddess47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess47/gifts).



> My contribution to the 2019 Steter Secret Santa. For Goddess47, who requested: holiday traditions, humor, rich Peter, and a happy ending. I may have gotten a little off track, but I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> Extra special thank yous to Nightwalker, who has been dealing with my panic the last few weeks, and did a hasty beta for me today.

“For the last time, it’s not real.”

“It’s real if we all agree it’s real. Right, Scotty?”

“I’m not sure that’s how these things work.”

“Dude, seriously?” Stiles flailed with his whole body. “You’re supposed to back me up here.”

Scott shrugged, not pausing on his quest through the kitchen for more snacks. “I thought you were asking my opinion.”

“I’m in DC for three months and you can’t read my mind anymore? I’m revoking your best friend privileges for the next,” Stiles checked the oven timer, “twenty-seven minutes.” 

He turned back to Derek, stepping aggressively into his personal space and poking him in the chest. “Listen up, grumpywolf. I’ve put hours of research and effort into this, when I was maybe supposed to be studying for exams. So when I say it’s real, you nod and agree with me. Capisce?” 

Derek’s frustrated eyebrows drew down further as he transferred his glare from the top of Stiles’ head to the finger jabbing him, but he held firm. “Just because you read about it on the internet, doesn’t make it real.”

Their debate—though referring to it as such was probably being generous—had been in progress long before Peter arrived at the loft. The scowling, immovable object that was his nephew, facing off against the unstoppable force of one Stiles Stilinski with a half-cocked, but heavily researched plan. Peter would take bets on the outcome, but sadly he was surrounded by broke college students.

“Ugh!” Stiles flung his hands in the air, nearly smacking Derek in the face, and turned on Boyd, doe-brown eyes beseeching. “Boyd, buddy, pal, my man. I need you tell Derek that Wolfenoot’s a real holiday.”

Boyd, who had been watching the argument with all the apathy of a lifeguard at the Olympics, took another bite of his moon-shaped cupcake and gave Stiles a maybe-maybe-not motion with his free hand.

Stiles sighed in despair and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, putting his long, pale throat on display.

Peter couldn’t resist joining in, amused despite himself. “Yes, please ask the teenagers who were bitten approximately fifteen minutes ago for their opinion on werewolf traditions.” He raised an eyebrow, more than ready to assume the banter. Not to rescue Derek of course—because his attempts to dissuade Stiles with as few words as possible were an Olympic sport of their own—but because seeing how long he could extend a Stilinski Rant was his newest pastime. The current record was sixty-five minutes, and he knew he could do better.

Stiles spun to gape at Peter—fast enough that his festive headband, complete with fuzzy brown wolf ears, slipped down briefly over his eyes. He glowered as he shoved it back into place. “First of all, it’s been three years, not fifteen minutes. And second, you may not have noticed, old man, but we aren’t all teenagers anymore.”

Peter let his upper lip curl as he eyed the ears. They were disgustingly cute. He wanted to nuzzle them. It was very trying. “Are we arguing against hyperbole now, Stiles? Or debating maturity?” 

He turned and made his way to the kitchen. One of the best ways to keep Stiles engaged was to bait him and walk away. There was a bottle of wine stashed behind Derek’s protein powder, safe there since none of the kids would touch it, and Derek had never learned to enjoy the taste. Peter deserved a reward for not walking straight back out of this “pack meeting” the minute he determined his presence wasn’t necessary.

“Yes. No.” Stiles flailed again emphatically as he trailed after him. “Whatever. I’m just saying, it’s not up to you to decide these things.”

“Of course not. I only have access to nearly every piece of werewolf-lore in existence, and I’ve actually _been_ a werewolf for thirty-plus years. But please, tell me more about the mysterious holiday celebrating canines and kindness, and the wolf spirit who’s breaking into our houses to leave us all tacky, useless gifts.” He made sure to strike just the right level of sarcastic amusement in order to draw Stiles into explaining his research spiral.

Stiles huffed and stomped past him into the kitchen, sadly not taking the bait. “If I want to buy presents for my favorite wolves and feed them cake and meat, you can’t stop me.” 

Peter found himself slightly disappointed, and considered changing tactics to exploit the easy opening for a “that’s what he said” joke. He paused, letting his gaze trail from Stiles’ wolf-ears to his broad shoulders and down to the fluffy tail tied around his waist and poking out from below his flannel. The layers were such a shame. One of these days someone should peel him out of them and find out what was hiding under there.

“I’ll eat your meat anytime, Stilinski!” Erica shouted from near the TV.

Peter’s lips twitched into a smirk. No need to get vulgar when Erica could always be counted on to go there.

“Lies and slander,” Stiles grumbled, fighting down a grin as he checked one of the dishes simmering on the stove. 

The reality of the so-called pack meeting was clear long before Peter stepped foot in the loft. He had picked up on the scent of roasting meat in the parking lot, and heard the festive music and laughter after he was in the elevator and, unfortunately, committed to making an appearance.

The kids were back for Thanksgiving, their first time home since freshman year of college began in late August. Someone had decided that the whole pack in one place enough reason for a party. Trust Stiles to come up with an official “holiday” for them to celebrate. Wolfenoot of all things. Something that had definitely been invented by a bored seven-year-old. Meat, cake, and gifts. Peter scoffed internally.

Peter didn’t do presents, hadn’t in years, unless they were plastic and could fit in an envelope. He didn’t have high expectations for anything the “wolf spirit” might bring him. Still, it might be amusing to see what Stiles had in store for the others.

With his freshly poured wine left on the counter to breathe, Peter wandered closer to the stove and hovered over Stiles’ shoulder, more interested in scenting his absentee packmate than the simmering apples. Stiles went still at Peter so far inside his personal space, then relaxed again and gave the dish a brief stir. “Apple sauce.”

Peter hummed in agreement and rested his hands on Stiles’ hips, feeling him shiver. He ducked his head and touched his nose to Stiles’ temple, breathing in his warm, spicy scent. 

It was something Peter began after the Nogitsune, touching Stiles when the rest of the pack had been keeping their distance. He had been so pale and hollow then, too thin, too quiet, struggling to come to terms with what the demon had done to him. Peter wasn’t about to sit back and watch the smartest member of his pack fade away, and their man-child of an alpha didn’t seem inclined to fix anything. So Peter had started touching him. Crowding into his space and forcing him to interact. At first it was just a hand on his shoulder, then it became purposefully brushing against him while they researched, and eventually, deliberately scent-marking him when they had been apart for too long. Loudly claiming him as important. As pack.

It took time for the betas to catch on, but after a few months they were reaching out as often as Peter was, bumping shoulders, pulling him into hugs, or otherwise manhandling him until his scent went from bitter and lonely, to warm and content. 

Peter had deemed his manipulation complete, but found the contact between them only increased because Stiles started seeking it out on his own. He grabbed Peter’s arm to get his attention, burrowed cold feet under his thigh when the two of them took over the couch on movie nights, and even hugged him, long and hard, before starting his cross-country drive to college.

It had been a lengthy three months since they were in the same room, and Stiles was a little too jumpy and touch-deprived for Peter’s taste. He squeezed the slim hips in front of him, pleased with the way his fingers curled perfectly into the hollows left by taut, healthy muscle, then released Stiles with a tug to the silly wolf tail as he stepped back to retrieve his wine.

Stiles cleared his throat. “I made pot roast.”

Peter glanced back, giving him an unimpressed look for stating the obvious. “Did you.” Even a human would be unable to miss the rich, savory aroma of slow-roasted brisket that had filtered all the way down to the street.

Though the dish wasn’t complex—and Peter knew complex, his work took him to some of the best restaurants in the country—it was nostalgic, and happened to be one of his favorites. He only had a few clear memories of his early childhood, and waiting impatiently for the roast to come out of the oven, his mother shooing him away so he didn’t burn his fingers, was one of them.

Stiles had ducked back over the cooking apples and was frowning as he checked them for doneness.

Peter took a sip of his wine. His eyes caught Derek’s, scowling at him from across the room—or maybe just staring. It was always difficult to tell. He looked like he might be working his way up to an actual conversation. Peter debated whether it would be worth it to make his exit now and miss out on dinner. Maybe he could just escape outside for a few minutes. The oven timer said he had at least twenty until he had to battle the children for his share of the food. 

With that in mind he headed for the spiral staircase and the blessed quiet of the roof. With dinner, dessert, and gifts, it seemed like Stiles had a long evening planned. It was better to spread out his pack interactions.

Before he made it halfway to the stairs Derek appeared at his side and gripped his bicep, claws pricking him through his shirt. Peter sighed and turned, ready for the typical lecture about making time for the pack—if you could call something involving mostly eyebrows a lecture.

"What are you doing?"

That vague demand deserved nothing more than an eyeroll. "I thought I’d check the roof for wandering wolf spirits."

"That's not—can you stop being sarcastic for two minutes?" 

Peter’s lips twitched. "Probably not."

The sigh Derek heaved was so long-suffering that Peter briefly flashed back to his nephew’s angsty teenage years. They had sadly melded right into his angsty adult years. Derek really needed a vacation from his life.

“Listen Uncle Peter, you should be careful.”

“The roof really isn’t that dangerous, Derek.”

Derek growled, his eyes flashing, claws lengthening against Peter’s arm. His control was really concerning. Peter might take it up with the alpha, just to see Scott’s reaction. “With Stiles.”

Peter paused. This wasn’t the conversation he was expecting, and if there was anything Peter hated, it was being wrong-footed. “What is it that you think I’m doing?”

Derek’s eyebrows drew together and Peter resisted the urge to comment on them getting stuck that way. It was something his sister used to say. The upcoming holidays were making him maudlin.

“He’s been through a lot.”

“Haven’t we all?” Peter quipped, then sighed at his nephew’s glower. “He’s fine, Derek. He smells healthy. Don’t go borrowing trouble when you have more than enough on your own.” God damn it, something else his sister used to say. He pulled his arm free from Derek’s hold and glanced towards the kitchen. 

The Argent girl had joined Stiles and seemed to be helping organize the food. Stiles was talking with animated gestures, but as soon as Allison’s back was turned his eyes drifted until they found Peter. He looked good, wolf-eared headband aside. He was finally filling out his clothes again, his cheeks were rosy from the heat of the stove, his eyes bright and interested. Peter let the corner of his mouth twist up and got a confused smile in return before Stiles went back to his conversation. Peter turned to continue his path upstairs.

“Peter,” Derek growled, frustration coloring his tone. “We aren’t done.”

“Well, when you figure out what we’re talking about, let me know.” Peter took the steps two at a time. It had nothing to do with avoiding his nephew’s penetrating glare and pointless questions.

The roof was as quiet as he hoped, the wintery bite to the wind guaranteeing that Peter wouldn’t be disturbed by errant betas. Peter didn’t exactly dislike his pack. It helped that he and Derek had taken over most of the duties of alpha over the years. It was surprisingly pleasant. He never expected to be something like happy co-alphaing a group of rambunctious bitten wolves with his surly nephew, but somewhere along the way he had accepted it.

They had agreed that, though he had good intentions, McCall was a weak alpha at best. Derek took it upon himself to teach the betas how pack was meant to function—the majority still felt Peter’s relationship with the truth was a little too flexible to be trusted in that regard. Derek offered his brand of leadership advice where possible, and Peter concentrated his efforts on keeping them safe. If that meant being the terrifying father figure from time to time, while Derek got to play pack-mom, well, that might be his favorite part. He did enjoy the opportunity to be dramatic.

If asked, Peter would place Scott in the category of goofy step-dad—he had little actual authority, but he was eager to try. The betas sometimes indulged him, before turning to Derek or Peter for real advice.

It was unorthodox, but as Stiles liked to say, Beacon Hills “thrived on that shit”.

Things had been calm for the last year of so. The Nemeton was quiet, and with everyone except Derek and Scott—who stayed local at the community college—away at school, Peter was finally free to resume some of the hobbies he had enjoyed before the fire. Like critiquing food and wine. Though he probably shouldn’t call his career a hobby, it’s not as if he was doing it for the money. He had more than enough squirreled away for his hypothetical grandchildren to live comfortably—more likely for Derek and Cora’s hypothetical grandchildren, if he was being honest. 

He was still building his reputation as a writer and critic back up after his unintended sabbatical. Happily, some of his old publications had reached out with requests. Readers loved his particular mixture of plain-talk and biting wit, and no one else was able to hit just the right notes when tearing apart an overly pretentious meal or wine tasting. 

In fact, he was headed out in the morning for a multi-city trip, examining the fascinating trend of biodynamic wines. Stiles would laugh hysterically if he ever found out Peter was researching wines that used grapes grown in relation to phases of the moon. It was half pseudo-science, half hippy-commune nonsense. It changed absolutely nothing in the flavor, and Peter was only interested because he wanted to know if the resurgence was due to actual magic users getting involved in viticulture.

It was no hardship that the trip allowed him to avoid the awkwardness of Thanksgiving with his nephew.

A foot scuffed deliberately on the concrete behind him, as if he couldn’t hear Stiles’ rabbit quick heartbeat before he even made it up the stairs. Peter glanced back at where Stiles stood, cheeks flushed from the cold, twisting his wolf tail between long fingers. 

“Surveying your kingdom?”

Peter snorted. “Everything the light touches.”

Stiles’ eye-roll was practically audible. “A shame it’s dark out.”

“Such is my lot in life.” He felt a small thrill of satisfaction as Stiles stepped up next to him and leaned against the railing. It was gratifying when the few pack members he did like chose to spend time in his company. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs, feeding your wolves?”

Stiles’ breath was fogging in the air, the glare of the floodlight next to the stairs adding a halo effect to his profile. “The meat’s resting. Lydia and Ally are guarding it, so I have a few minutes to breathe.” Stiles leaned closer and nudged their shoulders together. “And I needed to collect my strays.”

Peter’s lips curled up in an involuntary smile and he slung an arm around Stiles, hauling him against his side. No, Derek didn’t need to worry. Stiles was fine. Although he could feel the boy shivering despite his long sleeves. He rubbed a hand up and down his arm briskly, trying to warm him.

Stiles pressed closer to Peter’s heat, arm sneaking around his waist, head nearly on Peter’s shoulder as he soaked in the higher temperature of the wolf. “DC is already colder than this,” he mumbled. His breath puffed hot against Peter’s neck.

“It’s barely fall and you’re already a human popsicle. How will you survive?”

“So many layers, and lots of coffee.” 

Peter huffed and pulled him closer. “You need a portable space-heater.”

Stiles stretched up and rubbed his cold nose against Peter’s jaw in an imitation of scenting. “Or a supernatural one.”

It was said jokingly, but the words made something twist in Peter’s stomach. He chuckled in response, but cut the conversation short and used his hold to steer Stiles back inside the loft.

The pot roast was good. Delightfully flavorful, though personally Peter liked to add a cup or so of a nice Belgian Ale to really break down the enzymes and allow the meat to tenderize further. Still, Stiles had done well, and the homemade applesauce was surprisingly close to something Peter’s grandmother used to make, the sugar and lemon juice replaced with maple syrup and apple cider vinegar. He assumed Derek somehow had the recipe. It was doubtful Stiles found out about it on his own.

The company hadn’t been terrible. Several of the betas had interesting stories to tell about the pitfalls of being a werewolf in a freshman dorm. The humans of the pack had a group chat guessing which of their new classmates were supernaturally inclined. They were keeping score. Lydia was winning. Stiles argued that it was impossible to tell the difference between werewolves and pre-law students. They both spent altogether too much time posturing.

Peter was in the kitchen setting his wine glass on the drying rack when he heard the betas start to make noise about the promised gifts. That was his cue to head home. He still had to pack before his flight.

He had perfected leaving the loft without drawing attention to himself, and with the pack still at the table grappling over cake it was easy to grab his coat and slip out the door. He felt a brief twinge at the thought of disappointing Stiles when he wasn’t there to accept whatever silly gift the boy had chosen, but he pushed it away. Easier if they all learned now that Peter didn’t care for presents, and they were under no obligation to include him in their celebrations.

He heard his name called as the door slid shut and winced. That boy was much too observant. He hesitated, ready to send Stiles straight back in if he tried to follow him. Thankfully Derek proved himself useful for once.

“Let him go.”

Stiles was silent, so Peter couldn’t judge his reaction, but Scott jumped in with his typical puppy-dog whining. “He’s being rude. I should—”

Derek cut off that train of thought. “Peter hates holidays. I’m surprised he stayed this long.”

“It’s fine.” Stiles’ tone was laughing, and Peter relaxed, turning towards the elevator.

The shouts of his pack as they scrambled for presents grew more muffled once he was descending to the parking lot, and Peter was grateful to leave them behind. Overall, the party hadn’t been the disaster he predicted. He might even attend willingly next time.

* * *

A week after Wolfenoot—and wasn’t it unsettling that he was still referring to it that way in his head—Peter returned home from his trip to a blue envelope sitting on his coffee table. The apartment held a days-old hint of spicy citrus. 

Stiles.

It didn’t surprise him that the sheriff’s son had broken in. The little delinquent treated doors and locks like a minor inconvenience, claiming they were really more of a deterrent than a means of security. If you actually wanted to keep someone out, you needed to try harder than a measly deadbolt. 

Peter was reluctant to open the envelope—he _really_ didn’t like gifts—but couldn’t deny his curiosity. What exactly did Stiles think he wanted? Peter had the money for anything material he could possibly need, and a college student definitely didn’t. Revenge was a lovely possibility, but his was long completed—though he had no doubt Stiles would help him if it wasn’t, now that he had sanity on his side anyway. He smirked. Maybe it was a gift card. 

There was no note or card in the envelope, just a plain black USB drive. He was even more hesitant to plug the drive into his laptop, but he reasoned that if Stiles wanted to set a trap, he would have been more subtle.

The folders were labelled by year, and it was immediately clear that they correspond to the time he missed during the coma. They were filled with information. Stiles had put together an encyclopedia’s worth of pop-culture knowledge and trivia—all meticulously linked to both interior and exterior sources. Spreadsheets of books, movies, and tv shows, organized by what appeared to be relevance, and quality. There was even a key to Stiles’ ratings system, indicating which were his favorites, and which he thought Peter would enjoy.

And the notes. Peter laughed when he came across the notation next to the _Twilight_ series, published in the first year after the fire. _If you read this I will never speak to you again. All you need to know is, real vampires don’t sparkle, and Bella should have gotten a restraining order._ He’d heard of the novels of course, and had no problem adhering to Stiles’ warning on the subject.

He was pleased to see that Stiles included the new _Doctor Who_ series with the TV shows, though Peter had made it a point to catch up on that one relatively quickly. The show _House, MD_ was unfamiliar, but had several stars and an exclamation point next to it, along with footnotes attached, the first insisting that the main character was Peter’s brother-from-another-mother, and the second warning that it took place in a hospital, just in case that was “triggery”.

Peter had to set the laptop aside and try to control the surge of warmth in his stomach. Gratitude, he recognized. And pleasure. Affection.

He was already listening to the phone ring before he thought about making the call, and he was speaking before Stiles fully answered. “You broke into my apartment.”

“Locks are—”

“Just a deterrent, I know.” He could hear the smile in his own voice, and feel Stiles’ answering grin through the phone.

“Not arguing with you there, but I was going to say, locks are for people who don’t have keys.”

Peter tried to force his voice flat and unamused. “You have keys to my apartment?”

The brat, probably thinking he was safe since he was almost three thousand miles away, laughed outright. “Is that supposed to be a question?”

“Stiles.” He rolled his eyes. “Where did you _get_ keys to my apartment?”

“I can’t really answer that.” Stiles had his laughter under control now, and was matching Peter’s serious tone perfectly.

“And why not?”

“Because ‘getting keys’ implies they were somewhere before, which they weren’t, so I never actually got them, I just have them?” 

Peter sighed, recognizing the classic Stilinski-style brick-wall when he heard it. “I suppose this way is less upsetting for the neighbors.”

Stiles hummed, pleased at winning the conversation. “If you want, I can put up wards when I’m home for the summer. I’ve gotten pretty good. My dorm is the safest place on campus these days.” The phone’s tiny speaker just barely picked up the squeak of Stiles’ desk chair as he spun it back and forth.

Peter settled back on the sofa and slung his feet up on the coffee table. “Christmas break is already booked up?”

There was a brief pause and the metal on metal sound stopped. “Oh. I told everyone after you left.” Stiles shuffled in the background, his tone turning anxious, like he was worried about Peter’s reaction. “I’m not coming home. The tickets were highway robbery—or skyway robbery I guess? Stupidly expensive either way.” The squeak started up again, fast and Peter could picture him jiggling his leg. “Seriously. I should have booked them in March when I accepted my admission, but I didn’t know they were going to go through the roof. ”

Peter tuned out the rambling for a moment. He frowned. The emotion that squeezed down in his chest at Stiles’ admission was one he barely recognized. Disappointment. Summer break was six months away. He hadn’t realized how much he looked forward to seeing his favorite pack member for the holidays.

“Anyway, it means I can pick up some extra hours at work. The dorms are closed, but my manager is going to let me stay on her couch.” 

The forced levity in Stiles’ voice was making his teeth ache. He dragged his computer back into his lap, minimized the file explorer and opened a new tab. A dozen clicks, and an auto-filled credit card number later he was done. He smirked when he heard the incoming mail chime on Stiles’ laptop, on the other side of the country.

“No one else wants to work New Years, but it’s time and a half so—” He sucked in a breath. “What?”

Peter suddenly, desperately wished he could see his face. He grinned smugly.

“Peter, what did you do?” Stiles demanded.

“I know you’ve seen plane tickets before, darling. If you tell me your spring break dates, I’ll get those too.”

Stiles stuttered for a moment, wholly unable to form a sentence. Peter didn’t think there was anything more satisfying than turning the normally loquacious boy non-verbal. 

“Peter, this—this is a direct flight. Even the one with three layovers would have bankrupted me. I can’t let you do this.”

“Layovers are terrible, and the ticket’s non-refundable. Besides, when have you ever been able to stop me? Molotov cocktails notwithstanding.”

“I could—” He stopped himself. “I—oh my god.” He laughed breathlessly. “I need to tell my boss I can’t work Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll let you go then.”

“Oh. What? No, wait. I just—”

Peter hung up on him. He was still smiling an hour later as he finished up the first episode of _Leverage_. Stiles was right, he was already fond of Nate.

* * *

The rapid three-pulse buzz of his phone signaled a text from someone in the pack. If it was Scott he was going to pretend his battery died. Peter finished adding a few books to his Amazon shopping cart and finalized the order before retrieving the phone from the coffee table. That was when he noticed the time. Not Scott then.

 _Stiles: (12/7/2019, 1:17am)_ _I’m going to pay you back as soon as I can._

It had been five days and Stiles still wasn’t letting the cost of the tickets go. He was also, based on the timing and frequency of his texts, a terrible insomniac. Peter might almost regret buying them, if he ever wanted to bother with something as boring as regret.

He stood and stretched. God, it was late. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours helping Derek and Scott with a migrating Thunderbird in the Preserve. It had been a long, cold, wet day, and though everything had been resolved peacefully, he was beyond exhausted. A human would be coming down with a cold by now. As it was his eyes were burning, his limbs ached, and he should have been asleep hours ago.

He looked back over Stiles’ message, and fired off a reply as he dragged himself down the hallway to his bedroom. _Based on the FBI starting salary, and the current student loan interest rate, I’ll expect a check in the mail in 25 to 30 years._

 _God, you’re such an asshole._ Stiles’ response was almost instantaneous. Peter hoped that meant he was home and in bed at four-thirty in the morning east-coast time, and not out getting into trouble. _I kind of hate you right now._

Peter chuckled as he plugged his phone in, then stripped off his clothes and slid under the covers. Lying back, he tapped out one final message before setting the phone aside and succumbing to sleep. _I think what you mean is, “thank you, Peter”. Now, get some sleep, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you in the morning._

_Stiles: (12/7/2019, 1:30am) OMG..._

_Stiles: (12/7/2019, 1:36am) Thank you, Peter._

_Stiles: (12/7/2019, 1:37am) You’re still an asshole._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient everyone! I hope it's worth the wait!
> 
> I can’t thank Nightwalker and Twisted_Mind enough for their help with this. Not only for the much needed beta reading, but also for the hand-holding and cheer leading as I gave myself anxiety over the whole process. I’m so, so grateful you guys, you have no idea! <3 <3 <3

The clock ticked over to midnight as Peter poured himself a very expensive glass of wine. He rolled the tart acidity of it across his tongue and listened to the familiar, staccato rhythm of the heartbeat that was approaching his apartment door. 

There was a pause, followed by the rubber-muted thumping of someone trying to knock with a sneakered foot.

He took his time getting up to answer. Stiles was jittering from foot to foot making the floorboards creak, and he caught a whiff of chocolate mixed in with the scent of spicy citrus and nerves. He debated not opening the door. He had grand plans to be left alone, and considering the late hour, he could pretend he didn’t know Stiles had stopped by.

Except that Stiles had made himself a key. Damn it.

Peter opened the door.

“Shouldn’t you be with your father?” He could admit to being less than charitable when confronted with a no-longer-a-teenager at five past midnight on his least favorite day of the year. It didn’t matter if the not-teenager happened to be his favorite. He sighed and stepped out of the way so Stiles could enter the apartment, then shut the door behind him.

“He’s asleep. He took a double shift tomorrow, since we celebrate on Christmas Eve and he wants to give as many deputies as possible the morning off.” Stiles was holding out a plain white bakery box. He smelled of happy nerves.

“So you snuck out and came here?” He took the box, noting the faint embossing on the lid declaring the contents to be from Stella’s. And if his nose was right—which, of course it was—it contained twelve thin layers of perfectly decadent chocolate cake, filled with a rich mocha ganache. His favorite. “With cake?”

Stiles rolled his eyes to the ceiling, which always made Peter’s gaze dip to his throat. One would expect that after this long he would have learned to stop baring his neck to wolves. Oh well. Peter enjoyed the view, so he wasn’t inclined to point it out. “Adults don’t have to sneak. I told him I'd see him after he sleeps off the double.”

Peter carried the box towards the kitchen and opened the flaps out on the counter. The cake looked as lovely as he remembered.

Stiles toed off his shoes and dropped his coat near the door, then trailed after Peter. Apparently he was staying a while. 

“So, uhh, thanks again for the plane tickets. I was pretty bummed out about not coming home. My dad says thanks, too. He’s a little confused, but I explained how it’s probably a pack thing, and not—you know. Another kind of thing. Since we’re pack. And friends?” He was babbling, scent sharp, fingers twisting together with anxiety. Peter tried not to find it adorable.

“So I should assume this is a ‘thank you’ cake, then?” Peter took down a plate and, eyeing the delicate layers, a thin, slicing knife. It wouldn’t do to ruin the crumb with anything heavier. The oaky spice and dark-berry fruit of his wine would thankfully go well with the chocolate. He didn’t feel like denying himself any indulgences today. 

“What? No. It’s a birthday cake.” 

Peter paused. Oh. That was unexpected. 

He wondered how Stiles knew, but then, the date was probably written in police records from the fire, or on his old hospital charts. Nothing that difficult for someone exceptionally nosy to get access to. Peter kept his focus on cutting into the dessert. He tipped the slice onto a plate as he tried to ignore the emotion that was pressing against the inside of his chest. 

It wasn’t even about the cake. Stiles could be with his father right now, or Scott and Melissa. Even spending the holiday with Derek and the betas would be more logical than this. But he was here, with Peter. Not because it was Christmas. Not because he was obligated. But because it was Peter’s birthday, and he wanted to be. 

It was an unfamiliar feeling, being chosen. Peter wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He could see Stiles twitching from the corner of his eye, tangling his fingers and clenching them tightly, rocking like he was going to step closer, then changing his mind. The scent of hope and nerves were twisted together as tightly as his white knuckled grip. He looked ready to combust.

“I stopped by Stella’s earlier. I know you don’t like presents, but this is food, and you do like food, and I remember you said Stella’s was the only bakery in town worth the trip, and Derek wasn’t sure what flavor you like, but I emailed Cora, and she said you like chocolate, so I got the mocha because—”

Peter stuck a spoonful of cake in Stiles’ mouth to distract him. His eyes went wide and startled, before fluttering shut as he took in what Peter knew was the perfect balance of sugar and fat, the rich, dark chocolate deepened by just a touch of espresso. Peter hid his satisfaction when the tension drained from Stiles’ frame and he moaned, licking his lips as Peter drew the spoon away.

“Oh, wow.” Stiles looked up, doe-eyed and beseeching as he glanced from Peter to the cake, and back again. 

Peter huffed in amusement and took a bite for himself, sighing as the chocolate melted in his mouth, and the kick of coffee exploded across his tongue. It was enhanced by a hint of what could only be Stiles’ flavor from sharing the spoon. He hummed in pleasure, then watched as Stiles’ breath caught, his pupils expanded, and his scent bloomed with the ginger spice of arousal. 

Peter relaxed back on one of the kitchen stools as he scooped up another bite of the cake and held it out, maintaining their eye contact. Stiles stepped forward, reaching with one hand, and Peter drew the spoon ever so slightly away. Stiles paused, then took another step closer, reaching again. Still, Peter held it just out of reach. 

“Peter,” Stiles huffed as he closed the distance, bringing him nearly into the vee of Peter’s thighs.

“Stiles,” Peter returned, lifting the spoon and its little bit of heaven to plush lips.

Stiles was blushing as he opened his mouth and let Peter feed him. His thick, dark lashes fluttered. God, he was fun to tease.

Peter drew the spoon back while Stiles’ eyes were still closed, and Stiles wavered before his hands dropped to steady himself on Peter’s knees. Peter let out a pleased rumble at the display of trust.

Everything faded into a quiet rhythm as Peter continued to feed him the cake, alternating bites and the occasional sip of wine between them. Stiles stood still, cheeks pink, his hips bracketed by Peter’s knees, hands resting carefully on his thighs. 

The spoon clinked against the plate as Peter scraped up the last bite. As Stiles leaned in for it, he quickly redirected, taking it for himself. 

Stiles made a sound that was half disbelief, half want. “You asshole.”

Peter gave him a wicked smirk in return. “It’s _my_ birthday cake.”

He should not have been surprised when Stiles lunged forward and kissed him, desperate, demanding, and just a little off center. 

He had known this was where they were headed. All the teasing banter and quiet affection. The way they gravitated into each other’s space and found the flimsiest excuses to stay. The phone calls, and texts when they were apart, and the satisfying scent of attraction when they were close.

And yet somehow, Peter was stunned. Maybe because he had never expected Stiles to make the first move. He assumed they would continue to orbit each other until Stiles got bored, or found someone more appropriate. The way he was currently dragging at Peter’s shoulders—his scent bright with candied-ginger arousal, body strung tight, and his heart racing so fast that Peter worried briefly for his safety—spoke differently. 

Derek would never let him live this down. 

That didn’t stop him from enthusiastically returning the kiss. Any thoughts involving his nephew evaporated as his awareness narrowed to soft, damp lips, human fingers digging into his thighs, the taste of chocolate, coffee, and wine on the tongue licking its way into his mouth.

The plate and spoon clattered hastily to the counter as he drew Stiles closer with a hand fisted in the front of his flannel shirt. The other slid to cradle Stiles’ jaw as he tilted and redirected, gentling the kiss to something softer and slower, deeper. He teased his tongue against Stiles’ lips, not needing to do much convincing before he was given entrance. He explored, learning all the spots that made Stiles’ breathing hitch.

It was long minutes before Stiles broke away with a whine and pressed their foreheads together, hot breath puffing against Peter’s tingling mouth. “God, do you have to do everything the most dramatic way possible?”

Peter nipped the lower lip that had been tempting him for so long. “Normal is boring.” He got to his feet, crowding Stiles backwards against the edge of the counter. 

Stiles harrumphed, moving easily where Peter directed him. “You’re such a fucking tease, with all the looks, and the banter, and the _touching_. Every time I turn around you’re touching me and I feel like I’m _losing my mind_.” Stiles’ hands were everywhere as he spoke—like now that he had permission he couldn’t stop himself—sliding over Peter’s shoulders and into the dip of his shirt collar, cupping his neck, carding through his hair. His thumbs traced the arch Peter’s cheekbones, finally landing at the corners of his mouth where they tugged at his lower lip.

“I’m the tease?” Peter turned and bit lightly at the thumb poking against his canine. “What were you doing on Wolfenoot with the meat jokes, and cooking my favorite meal, and cuddling up against me on the roof? You were wearing a tail!”

Stiles grinned up at him, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. “You called it Wolfenoot.”

“Impossible brat.” Peter dove in and devoured his mouth.

Stiles was panting when they broke apart again. “Yeah. But I’m yours.” It was said with confidence, though Stiles followed up by ducking his face towards Peter’s shoulder.

Peter growled at the declaration, then reached down and lifted him by the backs of his thighs. Stiles’ yelp turned to a laugh as he wrapped long legs around Peter’s hips and slung an arm around his neck, dragging him into another kiss, his, “That is so hot,” muffled against Peter’s lips. 

Peter chuckled and crossed to the living room before releasing him onto the sofa. He hovered over him, hands braced on either side of his head. “We should probably talk about this.”

“Can we not and say we did?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Consent is sexy, Stiles.”

“Okay, how about you tell me what you’re going to do to me, and I say yes?” He reached up, impatiently tugging at the buttons on Peter’s shirt. “I’ve been waiting so long, Peter.” He tilted his head to bare his throat and batted his eyelashes. “Please fuck me?”

“You’re going to kill me,” Peter groaned, and gave into something he’d been waiting to do for longer than he cared to admit. He grabbed the hems of all of Stiles’ various layers—there were at least three—and dragged them up over his head, tossing the tangled mess of fabric to the floor. 

“Quick, alert the hunters.” Stiles’ voice was briefly muffled through the shirts. “Werewolves are weak against scrawny twinks begging to get railed.” He was blushing when Peter got him free, pink creeping down his chest and flooding his pale skin.

Peter let loose a surprised bark of laughter. “Darling, I don’t know when you last looked in a mirror, but you left scrawny behind a while ago.” He reached out dragged a finger across the defined muscles of Stiles’ chest and up his neck, until he could cradle his jaw and draw him into another kiss.

After a few more heated minutes of their tongues tangling, Stiles started to squirm, pulling at Peter’s clothes, trying to work his hands underneath them. “I want—I need—” Apparently having someone’s tongue in his mouth wasn’t enough to stop Stiles from talking, garbled though it was. He pulled hard at Peter’s shirt and sent a few buttons flying. He gasped, then laughed. “Sorry, sorry.”

Peter shook his head and shrugged out of the ruined shirt, dropping it to the floor. “Anytime you want to tear my clothes off, sweetheart, you go right ahead.”

Stiles immediately ran warm hands firmly over his pecs, and swept out and down to squeeze his biceps. “I’m holding you to that promise.”

He hummed in approval and ducked his head to mouth along one sharp collarbone and up Stiles’ throat to suck a bruise into his skin. 

Stiles gasped in response and threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

Peter pulled back enough to gloat over the mark and take in the litany of _please, please, please_ leaving Stiles’ lips and the rhythmic kneading of his hands. “Tell me what you want.”

Stiles pried open his eyes and glared up at him. “Do I need to spell it out?”

Peter lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, darling. Be explicit.”

The shudder Stiles gave was a beautiful thing to witness. Just as enticing as the words that came in stops and starts, before gaining speed. “I want your mouth. And your fingers. God, I have so many fantasies about your hands.” He arched up, seeking contact that was just out of reach, then groaned with frustration. “I want to suck you off. I want you to open me up and fuck me. I want you to hold me down, and pin me up against the wall, and let me grind our cocks together until we come in our pants.” He grabbed Peter’s shoulders and tried to drag him closer, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I want you to kiss me until I can’t think, and eat me out. I want to know how many fingers you can get inside of me before I come untouched.” Stiles’ eyes were fever bright, his hands digging in and pulling as fantasies poured past his lips. 

Peter’s voice was hoarse around the sub-vocal growl rumbling in his throat when he finally managed to speak. “One thing at a time, alright, sweetheart?” He pressed a kiss to the center of Stiles’ chest, then another, moving across so he could lick and suck on a rosy nipple until it pebbled up under his tongue. Peter reveled in his salty-sweet taste, the velvety smoothness of his skin, the smell of him—candied ginger, spicy citrus, and _Stiles_. 

He might have gotten a little bit carried away, because when he came back to himself Stiles was writhing under him, whimpering desperately, all ten fingers buried in Peter’s hair and hanging on for dear life.

Peter released his nipple with an apologetic lick to the sensitive flesh, and sat back on his heels. 

Stiles let go of his hair, but scrambled for another body part to cling to. “Jesus, fuck. I will kill you if you stop right now.” His voice was rough, breathless and debauched. Peter wondered if he could make Stiles come just from sucking on his nipples. He filed the thought away for another time.

“I’m not stopping, but if you want this to go any further you’re going to have to let me get the lube.” He raised an eyebrow as he waited for Stiles to release the nails digging into his forearms.

Stiles sighed at him. “Why don’t you keep it between the couch cushions like a normal bachelor?”

“Because that sounds much better in theory than it is in practice. Now, wait here.” He pulled away with a lingering kiss to Stiles’ palm.

“Okay, cool. Fine. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t walk right now, anyway.” He licked his lips, stretching out and arching his back. Much too tempting. Peter needed to hurry.

He made the trip to the bedroom for lube and condoms a quick one, and swung by the kitchen for bottles of water on the way back. He wasn’t fast enough, because Stiles already had his pants around his knees, and was palming himself through his boxers. Peter felt his cock twitch in reaction to the sight and had to take a steadying breath.

“I thought I told you to wait,” He mock threatened.

Stiles’ grin was cheeky, despite his glassy-eyed arousal. “You told me to stay here. Not the same thing.” 

Peter sighed, and grabbed a pillow from the sofa, dropping it to the ground between Stiles’ feet and following it down. “Disobedient.”

“You like me that way.”

Peter hid his grin against the inside of Stiles’ knee, nipping lightly at delicate skin as he helped peel the jeans the rest of the way off. “You have done this before, haven’t you?”

Stiles went still, then licked his lips, cheeks darkening. “Yes. Well, some. I mean, I’ve done some things. A few times.” He licked his lips again, such a distracting habit. “I’m not a virgin if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s the general question.” He put his hands on Stiles’ hips, then slid them firmly up his chest to his shoulders, and down his arms to his wrists, using enough pressure to make the tension drain from his fingertips. “I’m going to take my time with you either way, but it helps that you already know what you like. I don’t have to worry about scaring you.”

Stiles leaned into the stroking, then reached out to gently caress Peter’s cheek. “You’re sweet, but if you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’m going to come the second you touch me, and this’ll be over before we get close to worrying about the things I haven’t done.”

Peter laughed and ducked to press a kiss to Stiles’ belly, then hooked fingers in his boxers and dragged them down and off, pulling his ass to the edge of the cushion at the same time. 

Stiles’ breath stuttered and he groped for something to hold onto as he was moved. Eventually he gave up and sprawled back, long fingers twitching against the leather cushions. 

“You’re going to come more than once.” Peter put his hands on Stiles’ knees, gently pushing his legs wider as his gaze roamed over the work of art displayed in front of him. He had to fight to keep his breathing even as want burned hot in his belly. “That I can promise.”

Stiles was all long lean lines. The broad shoulders he hid under so many layers were wonderfully muscular, and his pale, mole-dotted skin was marred with fewer scars than expected after years of fighting alongside the pack. Peter wanted to bury his face against the defined line of his abdomen, and lick into the hollows of his hips until he was overwhelmed and begging. The thighs he held wide were muscled, strong. Peter couldn’t wait to have them wrapped around his waist. 

Peter had seen his fair share of cocks, but he could truthfully say Stiles’ was one of the prettiest. Flushed pink and curving up to rest against his belly, it was perfectly proportional to the rest of him. Longer than his own, and thick enough to be satisfying, but not so big that sucking him down would cause discomfort. That, he decided, would be the first order of business. He could take the edge off and finally get his mouth on Stiles all at the same time. He pressed Stiles’ legs wider and leaned forward, breathing in the spicy, musky smell of him where it was strongest.

Stiles was twitching, knuckles shoved against his teeth to muffle his whines. Peter reached up and dragged his hand away. “I want to hear you.” He kept their eyes locked as he nuzzled the crease of Stiles’ hip.

Open-mouthed, Stiles panted at him, then blinked. “Are you sure?” His face twitched like he was fighting laughter, and he bit his lip to hold it back.

Peter gave him a disbelieving look, waiting him out. 

Stiles twitched again, then giggled.

Peter sighed, being sure to blow the air across Stiles’ straining cock and make him moan. “Let’s hear it.”

The resulting grin was wicked. "Well, it isn’t going to suck itself.” Stiles started laughing so hard he snorted. “I’ve always—always wanted—to say that,” he managed to get out through his giggles.  
Peter rolled his eyes, trying to hide his own grin at how ridiculous this boy was, swinging from intense, to snarky, to cracking jokes. Peter loved it. “As you wish.”

“Did you just—” Stiles cut himself off with a shout when Peter leaned down and licked him from base to tip with the flat of his tongue. Stiles’ hands flew to his hair and clung as he started to babble. “Oh my God, I’m gonna come so fast, oh God.” 

He was already trembling, laughter forgotten, when Peter sucked the head into his mouth and hummed with pleasure at the salty taste.

Stiles pulled at his hair, though it was impossible to tell if he was encouraging him, or trying to make him stop. “Peter. Peter!”

Oh, he liked the way his name sounded on Stiles’ lips, rough with desperation. He wanted to hear more. He slowed his movements down as he stealthily uncapped the lube and coated his fingers. The next time Stiles rocked forward he eased the tip of one through the tight ring of muscle, just barely breeching him. 

Stiles gave a low, hopeful groan and pulled his legs wider. “Yes,” he hissed out. “Yes, yes, more.”

Peter hummed in acknowledgement at the demand and pressed his finger deep, the smooth walls clinging tightly as he twisted and nudged, slowly convincing Stiles’ body to let him in. Releasing the twitching cock from his mouth, he ducked down to suck marks into Stiles’ inner thighs and bite lightly at the swell of his ass.

Stiles keened and squirmed, trying to press closer, and Peter had to grip his hip to hold him in place as he added a second finger, stretching him carefully.

“Fuck! More. I’m not gonna break,” he growled, fighting Peter’s hold and thrusting as much as possible. Peter took him at his word and slipped a third finger inside as he took Stiles’ cock back in his mouth and sucked him down to the base. 

Stiles’ hammering heartbeat tripped and he cried out, arched hard against Peter’s hold, and shuddered as he came. Peter swallowed around him, working him through it, his senses momentarily overwhelmed, inundated by the taste and scent that was so purely Stiles.

He drew reluctantly away with a final lick as soon as the trembling stopped, but kept up the gentle movement of his fingers, alternately pressing deep, then twisting, stroking Stiles’ inner walls and finding all the places that make his cock twitch and try to harden again. Peter had to close his eyes for a moment and just breathe, tightening down on his control before looking up.

Stiles was still gasping, dazed and sweaty, even as he started to rock against Peter again. His hands fluttered out for something to grab, and Peter released his hip to lace their fingers together. “Oh god, that feels so good.” He arched into a particularly deep slide and moaned, eyes rolling back. “Gimme like—five minutes and I can go again.” 

Peter smirked and twisted his hand to rub against his prostate in slow, barely there circles.

Stiles’ shivered through a whimper, and his still half-hard cock twitched against his belly. “Nope, never mind.” He dragged at Peter’s hand, trying to pull him closer. “Get up here. Why are you still wearing pants?” He bit back a whine when Peter removed his fingers and crawled up on the sofa. “Off—get these off.” He popped the button and dragged down the zipper, doing his best to manhandle Peter out of the remainder of his clothes. A desperate litany of _fuck, yes, please_ spilled out of his mouth as soon as Peter’s cock was free, and he had to chuckle at Stiles’ big eyes and greedy expression.

Peter was secure enough to admit that he was getting desperate, so when Stiles pushed him to sit on the couch and started to crawl into his lap he readily complied.

“You’re a goddamn wet dream. I need to ride you. Please?” 

Peter could only groan his agreement as Stiles straddled him and gripped his shoulders. He caught at wiggling, tempting hips and made him pause. “Condom?”

“Not unless you want.” Stiles ducked close, lips and teeth teasing Peter’s ear. “I want you to get me messy. Make me smell like yours.”

Peter growled and dragged him into a kiss as Stiles reached back and lined them up, then sunk down with one steady push, enveloping his throbbing cock in wet heat and pressure that was just on the right side of too much. Peter caught his hips again, his chest heaving as he struggled for control. “Slowly, baby. Or this is going to be over much too soon.”

“Really? Okay. Yeah, okay.” Stiles took a shaky breath and let Peter ease him down until they were flush together. Then he waited, his hands wandering across Peter’s chest, brushing over nipples, tracing muscles. Peter could see him struggling against the need to move, tongue darting out to lick his lips, fingers twitching where they pressed to Peter’s skin. After a minute Peter felt the tension start to leave them both and relaxed his hold.

Stiles shifted experimentally, eyes narrowed as he concentrated. His shifting quickly turned to rocking and little, bitten-off gasps as he searched out the angle that made his heart trip. It was slow, a deep and filthy grind that Peter rarely experienced. They were exploring each other, learning, not chasing after an end.

Peter slid his hands to Stiles’ ass and kneaded the soft swell of muscle, resisting the urge to take over and devour him.

Coated in a sheen of sweat, Stiles’ pale skin glowed. He had his head thrown back and his hands braced on Peter’s chest as he rocked and ground, reveling in his pleasure. He looked like perfection. Beauty debauched. Peter was on edge, gums itching, need burning under his skin, but he thought he could stay like this for eternity if that’s what his gorgeous boy wanted.

Stiles angled his hips and found the spot that made his mouth drop open, working to have Peter’s cock rub over it again and again until he was shuddering, hands kneading, leaking pre-come. He whined, high and desperate.

Peter gave a little thrust, and was pleased at the resulting cry and twitch of Stiles’ cock. “Right there?” 

Stiles let out a sob of pleasure. “Yes!”

He gripped Stiles’ hips and started to move him, carefully hitting that spot over and over as Stiles came apart in his arms, shaking and gasping, moans punched out of him with every thrust. Neither of them were going to last much longer. 

Stiles had given up on slow and was bouncing in his lap, hips undulating wildly. Peter took advantage of his werewolf strength and held him still so that he could push up sharply, again and again until Stiles flew over the edge. He came, untouched, with a broken cry of Peter’s name, cock jerking and spilling between them. 

The perfect heat clenching around him was all Peter needed to follow after. His shout bordered on a roar as he dragged Stiles’ down, teeth pressed against his throat, and came deep inside him. 

Stiles collapsed forward in a boneless sprawl, panting into Peter’s neck. He fumbled weakly, until Peter caught on and wrapped him up in strong arms, holding the lanky form securely to his chest. 

Inhaling deeply, Peter basked in the scent of sweat, satisfaction, and Stiles. His boy was still shivering with aftershocks, heart pounding as he came down. “You’re amazing.” Peter murmured into his skin. “So good for me.”

Stiles gave a pleased little grunt and nuzzled closer, mouthing Peter’s neck, playing at sucking up bruises that vanished just as quickly. 

Peter tilted his head to give the teasing lips more room and swept his hands down Stiles’ back, sliding over sweat-damp skin, to rub against the place they were still joined. 

Stiles’ breathing hitched and he bit down. Peter let out an involuntary growl and Stiles, because he had no self-preservation at all, laughed. “Big bad wolf.” He licked the quickly fading teeth marks.

“Are you asking me to make a ‘blowing your house down’ joke?” Peter knew his voice was a little too rough to be totally human, and could feel his fangs itching to drop but forced them away. All his vaunted control, and Stiles could dismantle it in seconds, with a laugh.

Stiles shivered and squirmed, “Consider my house leveled,” he rasped, voice breaking on a whimper as the movement forced Peter’s softening cock to leave his warmth.

Peter chuckled and continued to play with Stiles’ hole, fingers teasing the muscle gently, then, when his come inevitably started to leak out, dipping ever so carefully inside to press it deep again. From the corner of his eye he could see Stiles’ face flush and heard his barely there _oh my God_ as he hid in Peter’s shoulder. 

“Peter,” he whined, twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to push into the touch or squirm away. “Quit it. I know for a fact that you can’t go again this soon.”

“What makes you say that, sweetheart?” Peter couldn’t be bothered to hide the grin in his voice.

“Scott’s an oversharer, and I know more about werewolf sex that I ever thought I would need to?”

Peter didn’t try to stop the growl this time. “I’ll make you a deal, baby. You never mention Scott again when we’re in bed, and at some point, when you’re not already exhausted, I’ll show you exactly why Scott's a terrible excuse for a werewolf.” He punctuated that by massaging Stiles’ ass gently with both hands, until Stiles melted with a waverey sigh.

“Technically we aren’t in a bed right now, we’re on the couch.” 

Peter shook his head. “Why don’t we just keep sex and your best friend as two things that should never, ever be in the vicinity of each other?” He shifted his hands to cradle Stiles closer, and stood with one smooth motion. “The other part of that I’m going to rectify right now.”

Stiles didn’t even startle at being manhandled this time, just wrapped his arms and legs around Peter and rested his head on his shoulder.

With a brief detour to the bathroom to do the barest of cleanups—Stiles smelling like his was fantastic, being glued together by dried come was not—Peter walked them both to the bedroom. It was only once he had them under the blankets, Stiles curled against his side, head on his shoulder, that he noticed the scent of nerves creeping in.

Alternately chewing at his lower lip and licking it repeatedly, Stiles was obviously fighting with whatever he wanted to say.

Peter reached up and carded fingers through his hair, tugging encouragingly. “Spit it out, sweetheart.”

Stiles finally let the words spill in a rush. “You’re talking like this is going to happen again, and I need to make sure.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “You really want this? More than this?” 

They really needed to work on his boy’s self-confidence. Peter sighed internally and rubbed a palm up and down Stiles’ back. Apparently he had a point to hammer home. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake you up with my mouth, and memorize every place that makes you gasp and squirm. I’m going to see how many times I can make you come before you beg me to let you rest, or just pass out from pleasure.” Stiles shifted to look at him, eyes wide, cheeks darkening in a beautiful blush. Peter traced his thumb over the wet, tempting lower lip, desire that had nothing to do with sex a hot ache in his chest. With anyone else it would be too much, but he knew what Stiles needed to hear.

“I want to make you breakfast,” he said plainly. “And kiss you goodbye at the airport. I want you to call me when you have a bad day. I want Skype dates, and long weekends, and fights over stupid, pointless things that neither of us really care about, just so we can have makeup sex.” He let a smirk curl the corner of his lips, because Stiles was speechless, his mouth dropped open. “I want to dress you up, take you out, and show you off. I want to smell the envy when everyone realizes you chose me.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles muttered, and sunk his hands into Peter’s hair so he could drag him into a possessive, demanding kiss that threatened to get Peter’s cock interested again, despite the late hour. Eventually Stiles slowed the kiss to a series of gentle pecks, until he was just breathing against Peter’s mouth. “You’re secretly the softest, aren’t you?”

“I’m really not,” Peter said dryly.

“You are. You’re soft, and sweet, and it’s all for me.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m practically world-renowned for being an asshole. No one you tell will ever believe you.”

Stiles pulled back and grinned. The glint in his eyes said Peter wasn’t going to like the next thing out of his mouth. “We’ll see about that, Jesuswolf.”

Peter stared at him in abject horror. “ _No._ ”

“Why not?” Stiles was almost choking on his efforts not to laugh. “You have so much in common. You were born December twenty-fifth, you rose from the dead,” Stiles eased toward the side of the mattress, obviously ready to make a run for it. “you constantly drink wine, and—” He squealed and tried to writhe away as Peter pounced and rolled them, grappling him to the bed. 

Eventually he had Stiles on his back again, the lanky limbs thoroughly pinned, and he nuzzled into his throat, sucking up bruises while Stiles gasped and moaned, head tilted back in submission. “Okay, okay. You win. No Jesuswolf.” 

Peter shifted back to admire his handiwork—Stiles’ definitely wouldn’t be hiding those marks anytime soon. 

Stiles gazed up at him, spicy-citrus pleasure curling in his scent, his smile breathtaking. “Happy birthday, Peter.”

Peter stroked his cheek and smiled back. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”  


* * *

  
Peter did in fact make him breakfast the next day—though by the time Stiles let him out of bed it should have been lunch. They spent the afternoon back under the covers marathoning old _Colbert Report_ episodes on Peter’s laptop, and that night Peter took him to dinner at the only decent restaurant in town that was opened on Christmas Day. 

He spent the meal preening at how good his clothes looked on Stiles, mouth-shaped bruises peeking from his shirt collar. Stiles convinced the very bemused waitstaff to put a candle in Peter’s Apple Tarte Tatin and sing happy birthday. If he recorded Peter’s reaction on his phone for blackmail purposes, he refused to admit it.

Three months later, Peter whisked him off to Paris for spring break. Stiles insisted on visiting the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa, the subject of the most famous art theft of all time, and going on a walking tour examining turn-of-the-century murder scenes—Peter lamented taking a criminology major to the foodie capital of the world. He was mostly teasing.

They celebrated Stiles’ birthday at Le Chateaubriand. Stiles played it cool, but he was slightly star-struck and tongue-tied when Gordon Ramsey stopped at their table to wish him a happy birthday—and drag a promise from Peter to meet for lunch the next time he was in London. When the celebrity chef walked away Stiles flailed out to grab Peter’s arm and hauled him close. 

“What the actual _fuck_ , Peter? You’re friends with _Gordon Ramsey_?” He hissed.

Peter shrugged, “I guest-judged an episode of _Hell’s Kitchen_ years ago. We hit it off.”

Stiles stared. His mouth hung open until Peter reached out and pushed his jaw shut with a finger, then smirked and kissed him lightly. He always loved making Stiles speechless.

Stiles spent the rest of the meal alternately picking his brain about the celebrities he’d met, and growling promises in his ear about how much revenge would be happening when it was Peter’s birthday again.

Peter sipped his biodynamic wine and smiled. It was something to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the Peter Hale+Gordon Ramsey friendship to Bunnywest. If you haven't read, [Once in a Blue Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099308/chapters/50245985#workskin) yet, you need to go there next! Steter Reality TV bakers. It's fantastic.

**Author's Note:**

> All misplaced commas are my babies and I love them. (That’s a lie. Please let me know if you see any typos, I hate those little demons and will slaughter them on sight.)
> 
> This is canon divergent after 3B. Also, everyone lives (Except for Malia, who doesn’t exist because her story arc was bullshit, and I can’t include her without wanting to fix things, and this Christmas fluff doesn’t have time for that).
> 
> I made a Tumblr! [Come say “Hi”!](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
